hastily scrawled poem discovered on'
a grease-stained linen napkin by waitress,
Fanny Galore at a vacated breakfast table
in Cafe Tasse, Hampstead in Autumn, 1818
and believed* to have been written
by John (I'm a poet, Jim, not a programmer) Keats

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A Melancholy Ode To A Golden Egg

I wandered on a website thoughtlessly,
And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two purple eggs, couched side by side
In deepest <class>, beneath the Java roof
Of files and scattered buttons, where there ran
An applet, scarce espied:

Past the near forums, over the still vid stream,
Up the log file; and now ’tis buried deep
In the next product-page:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

O latest born and loveliest vision too
Of all CC's feted hierarchy!
Fairer than JC's breadcrumb-seasoned clue
Who hath not seen thee oft amid the store?
Sometimes whoever seeks an egg may find
Thee sitting careless on knowlegebase floor,
Thy shell soft-lifted by the Windows-ing wind;

Sat on a black office chair sound asleep,
Or Drows'd with fume of coffee, while I look
For the next egg with all its styled flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner I dost keep
Steady my laden head across facebook;
Or for a keyphrase guess, with patient look,
I watchest the last twitters hours by hours.

No, no, go not to left, neither post
phrase's vain, tight-worded, planned or random
Nor suffer thy pale sorry butt to be kicked
By Scooter's fiendish PERLs of Wisdom;
Tread not the <PATH> of indolence,
Nor let the data nor the format numb
Your mournful Psyche, lest the system call
Be partner in your sorrowed mysteries;
For page by page will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful languish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed searchers all,
And hides the golden egg in an April shroud
Then glut thy sorrow on a crusty roll,
Or count the variables in a Boolean String
Or on a plate of eggs Benedict;
Or if thy significant other some rich anger shows,
Imprison their soft hands, and let them sing
And look deep, deep into your bleary eyes.

For ever panting, and for ever dumb;
All greedy human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-shelved fridge,
Tasting of flora and the country green,
That I might drink, and leave the egg unseen,
And with three, fade away into the sofa deep:

Farewell! I yet have visions in the night,
And in the day faint visions there is store;
Vanish, ye eggsies, from my fuddled sight,
Into the network clouds, and never more return!**


* but only by me, mind! ;-)
** not really. lets do it again, next year